[.ca] In Ruins: A Journey Through History, Art, and Literature (ISBN 1400030862)

bare ruined choirs:
To read In Ruins cover to cover is a continuous delight, but you could dip in anywhere and find yourself enthralled in an instant. Michael Woodward has a well-stored memory but wears his erudition lightly. He is now the director of the Holburne Museum of Arts in Bath, but his book surely reflects the five years he worked in Sir Hans Soane's museum in London. That incredible collection, housed in Soane's own home and left, by his direction when he bequeathed it to the nation, exactly as it was at his death, is a wondrous assemblage of antiquities. It appears chaotically haphazard but indeed was not, and the contents of this book have something of the same quality. Vignettes, quotations, anecdotes, reminiscences of journeys among ruins, romantic elegies, musings deeply felt, pour helter-skelter from Woodward's lively mind. The book has its structures; it has its themes. They are not starkly revealed but the underpinnings are there. Woodward's opening chapter launches us, appropriately, in Rome. The Romans believed their city of 800,000 people was eternal and why not? Rome had walls ten miles long studded with 376 towers, crossed by nineteen aqueducts feeding more than 1,200 drinking fountains and close to a thousand public baths and the whole decorated with 3,785 statues - and all this dwarfed by colossal public buildings. How could such magnificence perish? The extraordinarily elaborate water supply provides the clue. The barbarians broke the aqueducts and soon the population was a poverty-stricken remnant, perhaps 30,000, huddled beside the Tiber. "From the fall of classical Rome until the eighteenth century" Woodward reminds us, "the only houses in the Forum were the cottages of lime-burners and the hovels of beggars and thieves." What were left were magnificent ruins and those ruins have inspired poets, artists, philosophers and theologians down the centuries. They even inspired the Fuhrer who after his first state visit to Rome decreed that all Nazi monuments should be built of marble, brick and stone - no concrete. The ruins of the 1,000-year Reich must be suitably grandiose - that is, like Roman ruins! And how grandiose the Roman ruins were! In the Middle Ages men thought the ruins of the baths of Caracalla were the work of giants. The chapter is chiefly devoted, however, to the Colosseum, and a whole series of characteristic reflections and vignettes, stories and quotations from literary visitors of different centuries. He also laments - not for the last time - the work of those who have destroyed an extraordinarily inspiring ruin in their efforts to preserve a monument. "Poets and painters like ruins, and dictators like monuments." The Colosseum was once a giant's garden haunted by owls and nightingales. Now it is sterile. It is a recurring theme. Ruins are important in their own right, not just because of what they once were, and should not be relentlessly cleaned up and re-pointed to make them permanently monumental. The trees, shrubs, creepers and flowers, are all part of the inspiration of ruins: "bare ruined choirs in which the sweet birds sing." Through successive chapters we follow Woodward's schoolboy steps to Verulam (Roman St Albans) and share his disappointment that the walls were insignificantly low: Roman ruins but nowhere near so grand as the ruins of Rome. The older Christopher, however, sees them as an exemplar that reminds us of the mortality not just of Man but of his works. Francis Bacon, ennobled by his king, took "Verulam" as his title to remind himself that all pomp and state is but passing vanity. Woodward follows the footsteps of the tormented ploughman poet, John Clare, to a ruined arch and scattered stones, all that survives of a town destroyed in the Wars of the Roses. There he was inspired to write "Elegy on the ruins of Pickworth". Bitter at the inequalities of wealth he saw around him Clare was consoled by the "exemplary frailty" of men's possessions. At first I marvelled at Woodward's courage in boldly inviting comparison with Rose Macaulay's justly famed The Pleasure of Ruins. He had nothing to fear. It stands the comparison very well. Late in the book he devotes a long admiring passage to Macaulay's extraordinary life. She was, he tells us, an early and potent inspiration and it shows.